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"Afo' de Lawd, Boss," wailed the desperate negro, "I jest can't l'arn no mo', now, nohow. 'Deed I can't. Hit's bin nuffin but l'arn, l'arn, ebbery minnit sense I got up dis mawnin', an' my haid's jest bustin', so hit is. I a'most wisht I wuz back wid my ole mas'r, who didn't want to l'arn me nuffin." The astonished Deacon paused and reflected. "Mebbe we've bin tryin' to force this plant too fast.
Wherefore, he retreated, muttering threats of what the company would do. "Now, if I had only known it was against the law. My thick haid's always roping trouble for me," the plainsman confided to the Pullman conductor, with twinkling eyes. That official unbent. "Talking about thick heads, I'm glad my porter has one.
Out of the mists of memory he heard a wheezy voice issuing from a great bulk of a man "... yore red haid's covered with glory. Snap it up!" The words came so clear that for an instant he was startled. He looked round half expecting to see Blister. Stiffly he gathered himself out of the snow slush. A pain jumped in the left shoulder. He limped to the rope and coiled it.
I been doing some inquiring about this Miss Valdés, and from all telling she's the prettiest ever." "I could have told you that. It ain't a secret." "I notice you didn't tell me." "You didn't ask, you old geezer." "Sho! You ain't such a clam when it comes to pretty girls. You didn't talk about her, because your haid's been full of her. It don't take a mind-reader to know that."
"De devil he gwine teck cyar er yo' hyar, honey. W'en he come a-sniffin' en a-snuffin' roun' de rock in de big road, he gwine spit out flame en smoke en yo' hyar hit's gwine ter ketch en hit's gwine ter bu'n right black. Fo' de sun up yo' haid's gwine ter be es black es a crow's foot." The child dried her tears and sprang up.
I'se been waitin' fer dis news mo' yeahs den I kin reckermember, but dey's come 'fo' my ole haid's under de sod. Hit's all right dat we is glad en sing aloud for joy, but we orter rejice wid trem'lin'. De 'sponsibil'ties ob freedom is des tremenjus. Wat you gwine ter do wid freedom? Does you tink you kin git lazy en thievin' en drunken? Is dere any sech foolishness yere?
"I wish I was dead," Bob groaned, drooping in every line of his figure. "I wish I'd never been born." "Blasphemy number two. Didn't He make you in His image? What right you got wishin' He hadn't created you? Why, you pore w-worm, you're only a mite lower than the angels an' yore red haid's covered with glory." Blister's whisper of a voice took unexpectedly a sharp edge. "Snap it up!
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